POV: Nyra
The air changed the moment they crossed the southern ridge.
It wasn’t just cold—it bit. The wind sliced through her skin like knives dipped in shadow. Even Lucan, usually the first to crack a joke, had gone quiet.
“This is the place,” he said, crouching low beside a scorched patch of grass.
Nyra knelt beside him. The earth was blackened, still warm beneath her fingertips.
No scent.
No tracks.
But claw marks had gouged deep into the stone nearby—marks no regular wolf could leave.
Nyra’s spine prickled. Her wolf growled inside her, low and uneasy.
Then came the fog.
Thick. White. Heavy. It rolled over the ridge like a silent wave, swallowing the trees and sky.
“Lucan?” she called, heart thumping.
“Right here,” came his voice—but it sounded farther than before. “Stay sti
